


Wheeze

by JackTheSoldier



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Historical RPF
Genre: Based on my hunch that Laurens was sick with malaria when he died, Malaria, Sick Character, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:06:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22024549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JackTheSoldier/pseuds/JackTheSoldier
Summary: John Laurens dies of Malaria instead of the Battle of Combahee. Where is the glory in losing the fight against sickness?
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens
Comments: 1
Kudos: 27





	Wheeze

The fever took him by storm, and in two weeks, he was immobile. 

What began as just a mosquito bite in the sweltering Carolinian summer would kill him, and there was no way to stop it. He could die because of something he couldn't control, and in these moments, those thoughts are what tore him down most. Between coughing and hurling in the bucket that the Stock Family had supplied for him, he was delirious, and in the short moments of clarity, he entertained himself with gallows humor and mumbling self-hateful things. 

When General Greene had come to visit his bedside one night, Laurens had turned to him and in a fit of tears, he had asked, "I would rather die in any battle before or after this than in this bed of sickness, and wouldn't you? Where is the honor and glory, sir, in losing the fight against sickness?" 

General Greene couldn't answer, but he prayed, and the grandson of a French Huguenot and a Quaker were praying together, one of them wheezing and coughing with every other word, and they wished for it all to end soon. "End this suffering, Holy Lord, so we may drink the wine of victory seeing the soldiers of the false King leaving," Laurens had whispered. 

In the early hours of the morning, a doctor had let it slip to the Colonel that a few redcoats were in the area and they were planning an attack. 

It took three men to prevent the Colonel from rising to fight, and all three were thrown into a panic when he began to cough and sputter and heave up whatever was left in his stomach. His skin was cold and sweaty, but Laurens had complained about being too hot. 

When he was finally laid back down and began to rest again, a priest and the doctor were sent to join the men, and he knew why. 

"Colonel Laurens, do you have any loved ones you wish to send letters to?" 

He thought in those moments, of Alexander. Devilish, bittersweet, Alexander. The man he had fallen in love with that had turned on him and married a rich woman in the north. What's worse: he invited John to the final consummation of their marriage. With the taste of hate on his tongue, Laurens thought to himself, _is that all I was to him? A trophy, to pay for his needs and be a cocksleeve for him? A handsome face within reach to make him feel better about himself? A mind to trick and play with? Is that all?_

"Yes. My wife, and my father, and my sister, and... For God's sake, son, hand me more papers than that," Laurens said as a private grabbed a paper for everyone he named until he finally set the whole stack beside him. 

He began with his father, and everyone watched him write and helped to fold and prepare the letters to be sent. 

_My Dear Father... I am sorry I was not a better son._

His wife after that. 

_My Martha... I am sorry that I did not give you and our daughter the love you were worthy of._

His sister, Patsy. 

_Dear Martha... Please know that I love you and my teasings, when we were younger and even what I say now, meant nothing._

General Washington. 

_Dear sir, the Command-in-Chief of the Continental Army, His Excellency General George Washington... Thank you for allowing me a place on your staff, and for treating me like a son when I did not feel like I had a father to call me one. Tell my Brothers on staff that they meant very much to me, and it pains me to say goodbye._   
_To Tench and Kidder, their jests and laughter made every day brighter._   
_To Robert Harrison, I apologize for poking at his age, but he did make work much lighter for us all, and for his reminders to keep our chins up and keep working, I am grateful._   
_To Jim McHenry, thank him for caring for us all on staff when he was sick or sore and needed help most._   
_To Jack Fitzgerald, despite his being absent from staff, I hope he finds peace and a lack of pain away from the war. Lord knows he deserves to have some peace after Monmouth._   
_To Ben Walker, I am glad for his company, and most especially his work helping us with the Baron._   
_To Billy North, I thank for his help in translating as well and providing tea and laughter on the harder days._   
_To Peter Du Ponceau, I plead his forgiveness for my horrible accent in French and applaud his control of the Baron._   
_To The Baron, Von Steuben, I thank for his listening ear and help in war and cheery character._   
_To Alexander, I have sent another letter. He knows my words and affections._   
_To the Marquis, I have also sent another letter._   
_Thank you all on staff, the men of the Army, and the ladies as well. Send my regards to all of them for their help in the fight for the liberty of which we have won not a year past._

Gilbert. 

Dear Gilbert, our Marquis de Lafayette... I am sorry for being less of the friend you would have wished for upon your welcome to these United States. 

And lastly, Alexander. 

_My Dear Boy Alexander Hamilton... I am sorry for leaving you and my thoughts have been with you for many days now. My heart is with you also, and I wish to God I had something to give you before He takes me from this earth and away for good. My words of affection are lacking, and I wish I could go in kicking and screaming rather than the delirious thoughts I find myself in. Enclosed, you find my last words to you, as I fade in sickness and malaria, and I wish to say, I love you, though this letter may damn us both forever, I wish to clarify that I love you more than a brother, a soldier, or a friend. I love you like you love your wife, and I pray you to send my regards to your Betsey and Philip. I never meant ill against them, and I would never mean ill against any man, woman, or otherwise regardless of their character if it meant they must endure this hell I am in. My heart is with you, dear sir, and hide my words, unless a better generation of Americans comes along to it and accepts my love to you, as I wish we could love freely, but we cannot._

As John finished writing his last letter, he purposefully upended the inkpot he had and threw his hands upon the mess, staining them considerably, and before he could be stopped, he pressed his hands to a paper. When he pulled them away, there lay a perfect presentation of his hands. 

"Send this to Hamilton as well. In jest, I assure you. He would love it." He was lying. Alexander loved his hands, and he loved to hold them, and the sentiment was not going to be lost on him. 

Laurens continued to do this, requesting the papers of his hands be sent with the letters for everyone he had written one for. A piece of himself. For General Washington, he sent more, and the packet of letters for Headquarters grew difficult to fold, so they decided to wrap it in newspapers and then in more papers, addressed still to His Excellency. 

"Son, are you quite alright?" The priest asked, seeing Laurens look at the mess of ink before him now. 

"I have made a mess. You must forgive me." 

"All is forgiven, sir." 

"Ah, all is forgiven for a man nearly dead." 

No one responded. 

"Help me up. I will not die like this. I will die in my uniform!" Laurens suddenly said and tried to sit up, but he only spilled more ink across the sheets by shifting the writing desk on his lap. 

"No, sir! You cannot sit up." 

They shoved him back down. 

Laurens wheezed and shook his head frantically. "I will not die like this," he wheezed. "Not in my nightshirt and in a sickbed. Not without my uniform. No. No. No." 

"Sir, are you alright?" 

He was fading. Now was time for his last words, if he would say any. He could feel himself leaving, and he had to speak up. 

"Sir? Colonel?" 

"I fought my whole life, and I would rather have died in any battle than to die here in this bed with sickness. Where is the glory or honor in dying of sickness?" Laurens said, and he took the priest's hand and squeezed it. His breathing picked up, and in seconds, he shuddered, and it was over. 

The hand in the priest's went limp, and the doctor checked his pulse. 

He was dead. 

The letters were sent out, and each found its owner without hardship, and on August 28, 1782, someone wrote Colonel Laurens' last words so that no one would forget that on the 27th day of August in 1782, John Laurens would have rather died in battle than of malaria he was struck with. 

General Nathanael Greene wrote Washington on the 29th and told him, and the day it was received became a day of mourning on the staff. 

Colonel John Laurens would have rather died on the field than of malaria. 

Where is the honor in dying in a sickbed? 

**Author's Note:**

> @general-wheeee, where I realize that Laurens committed suicide on August 27, 1782 to avoid dying of malaria (an unproven claim, but it is in the process of being researched). 
> 
> Have a lovely day.


End file.
